Elias stood at the counter, a list of classes in hand, handed to him by a stern-faced attendant clad in plated armor that seemed far more functional than ceremonial.
Her sharp gaze flicked to him occasionally as if gauging his worth.
"Choose your ten classes wisely," she said, her voice clipped and matter-of-fact. "Once you've made your selections, you'll start today. You can revise your schedule later, but no slacking. Got it?"
"Yes, ma'am," Elias replied, swallowing his nerves.
Unfurling the scroll, he studied the list. Each class description promised something essential for survival: Survival Tactics, Dungeon Navigation, Magical Theory, Weapon Mastery.
His eyes paused at the last one. A twinge of discomfort stirred in him. He already knew he'd pass any weapon test with ease.
After all, his System had maxed out his mastery the moment he awakened. But he couldn't just skip it. Skipping would raise too many questions, draw too much attention, and attention was dangerous.
"I'll start with Weapon Mastery," he said, handing back the scroll.
The attendant raised an eyebrow, her expression almost amused. "Ambitious. Captain Darius runs that one, and he doesn't go easy on beginners. West wing, second floor. You'll find the training hall there."
Elias nodded, offering a small thanks before making his way to the west wing.
The training hall was a cacophony of activity. The clash of steel, the thud of practice dummies, and the shouts of instructors all melded into an overwhelming symphony of sound.
The air smelled of iron and sweat, and the floor was lined with scuff marks from countless battles, both real and simulated.
At the center of it all stood Captain Darius, a hulking man with arms as thick as tree trunks. His face bore a network of scars, his graying hair cropped short, and his steely eyes scanned the recruits like a predator assessing prey.
"New batch, gather up!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
Elias joined the other recruits, feeling their nervous energy radiating in waves.
Most of them fidgeted with their weapons or glanced at one another, trying to gauge the competition. Elias stood still, his expression neutral, though his mind raced with questions about how to play this. He couldn't let on that he was different — not yet.
Darius's sharp gaze swept over them. "Weapon Mastery is not about brute strength or blind luck. It's about precision, discipline, and respect for your weapon. You'll learn those here, or you won't last long enough to matter."
He gestured to the rows of weapons lining the walls. "Pick one. You'll train with it until you can handle it in your sleep."
Elias walked over to the racks, pretending to deliberate. He didn't need to.
Every weapon here felt familiar — each one like an old friend he hadn't seen in years. His System's Weapon Mastery skill at Level 100 meant he could wield anything with flawless proficiency.
But he knew better than to flaunt it. Hesitation was key. It had to look real.
He settled on a longsword, lifting it with a deliberate slowness as if testing its weight. It felt as natural in his hand as breathing.
Returning to the group, he adjusted his grip, mimicking the nervous fidgeting of those around him.
The lesson began with stances and basic techniques. Darius demonstrated each move with practiced ease, his voice commanding and firm. "Feet shoulder-width apart! Balance is key! If your foundation is weak, you'll crumble the moment you're under pressure."
Elias mimicked the stance, careful to make it look slightly awkward, as if he was learning alongside the others. The truth was, every step, every swing, every pivot came to him as easily as walking.
His body moved instinctively, the sword an extension of his will. But he held back, deliberately adding slight imperfections to his form.
"Don't overthink it, Boy!" Darius barked as he passed. "Relax your shoulders, and keep your strikes fluid!"
Elias nodded, feigning a sheepish smile. "Yes, sir."
He caught glimpses of the others struggling — grips too tight, stances too wide, swings too wild. Darius moved among them, correcting mistakes with a mix of sharp words and firm guidance.
The recruits' efforts were earnest, but Elias couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. They were genuinely learning, while he was pretending.
An hour into the session, the recruits were divided into pairs for sparring. Elias found himself paired with a wiry boy named Trent, whose shaky grip on a wooden practice sword screamed inexperience.
"Go easy on me," Trent muttered, his voice tinged with nervous laughter.
"Of course," Elias replied, offering a reassuring smile.
When the spar began, Elias held back, letting Trent land a few strikes that barely glanced off his defenses.
He countered with slow, deliberate moves, just enough to keep the match engaging but not overwhelming.
It was a delicate balance — appearing competent without revealing just how far ahead he truly was.
Darius watched from a distance, his sharp eyes narrowing. "Elias, stop babysitting and show me you can actually fight."
Elias froze, his heart skipping a beat. The captain's tone left no room for argument. He nodded, adjusting his stance. "Yes, sir."
This time, he moved with more intent, his strikes faster and more precise. Trent struggled to keep up, his defenses crumbling under Elias's calculated assault.
But even then, Elias held back, making it look like he was exerting himself.
Darius approached as the spar ended, nodding once. "Better. You've got potential with the sword. Don't waste it."
"Thank you, sir," Elias said, lowering his sword. The captain's praise was understated, but it carried weight. It also made Elias uneasy. The last thing he wanted was to stand out.
As the session ended, the recruits gathered in a circle around Darius. The captain's voice carried a mixture of authority and weary experience.
"You survived your first lesson," he said. "That's something. But don't get cocky. Out there, beyond these walls, survival isn't guaranteed. Train hard, stay sharp, and maybe — just maybe — you'll make it."
The recruits murmured their assent, exhaustion etched into their faces. Elias's arms ached, but not from the training. Pretending to struggle was more taxing than he'd expected.
Still, he was relieved to have gotten through the first class without drawing too much attention.
As he left the training hall, Elias glanced back at the rows of weapons, their gleaming edges catching the light.
They were tools of survival, yes, but for him, they were also symbols of a secret he couldn't afford to reveal.